Gulls' Way
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: How 'bout a little Pinky Fizz with those madeleines.


Disclaimer: These characters are not mine and I make no profit from them

**Author's Note:** More fluff from the third BKStar 'Zine, and now that the star has really_, truly _come to pass, I am even more grateful to all of you who supported it.

**Gull's Way**

By L. M. Lewis

_The fixity of a habit is generally in direct proportion to its absurdity." _Marcel Proust

"I _knew_ you were going to say that."

"Say what?" the judge looked over his shoulder as he straightened up from his inspection of the fridge.

"What you said," McCormick scowled into his cereal bowl, where he was pushing what was left of the soggy corn flakes around, "about using the last of the milk."

"Yeah, well, you did use the last of it."

"See, real predictable."

"Well, if you knew that was what I was gonna say, why didn't you pick some up on the way home last night?"

McCormick mumbled something mostly inaudible that ended with the words " . . . just wasn't thinking about it."

"'Course not. You _never_ think."

"Knew you were gonna say _that_, too."

This time there was a little heat behind the words, and the judge turned and studied the younger man for a moment.

"Lemme guess," he sighed, "you and that girl, whatshername, you broke up last night."

"Valerie."

"Valerie? Valerie, the film major?" Hardcastle cocked an eyebrow in surprise. "I thought you two broke up last month."

"We did," McCormick muttered, "and then we got back together last weekend."

"I dunno, kiddo . . . Ingmar Bergman." He shook his head slowly.

"Yeah, well, I think maybe she just needed a ride up to Santa Barbara for the film festival. The car," he said grimly, "it's a curse."

"Oh, no, I know where this is going." The judge walked over to the cupboard, took down a cup, and started pouring coffee. By the time he'd turned around again, McCormick was staring at him narrowly.

"What does _that_ mean?"

"Nothing." Hardcastle shrugged. "Just every time you break up with one of these women, I get to watch you mope around the house and hack up the hedges."

"Well," Mark lifted his chin and made a pretty good stab at serene, "I already got that out of the way with Valerie. One mope to a customer."

"Good," the judge nodded. "'Course the rest of the time it's not much better."

"Whaddaya mean?" Mark said indignantly.

"I mean, when you aren't breaking up, then you've just found the right one, and it'll be weird food, or weird movies, or yoga or God knows what all. And that's all you talk about."

"That is not _all_ I talk about." The indignation rose a notch.

"Nah, you're right. You also talk about the Coyote, and cars in general—"

"Well, all you talk about is criminals and legal stuff, and John Wayne, and the Dodgers—"

"We _both_ talk about the Dodgers."

"Yeah, but _you_ talk about when they were from Brooklyn."

Hardcastle frowned.

"Like I said," McCormick pointed a spoon at him, "I can tell what you're gonna say next."

"Twenty bucks."

"_See_."

"'See' what?" Hardcastle looked doubtful.

"See, you're gonna bet me twenty I can't go without talking about girls, cars, and sports for a day."

"I was gonna say three days."

It was Mark's turn to look doubtful. "That's kinda long."

Hardcastle smiled in premature triumph.

"Okay," Mark agreed, shoving reluctance beneath pride, "but you've got to not mention anything about criminal justice, sports, John Wayne, or the Lone Ranger."

"That's four things. You only have three."

"Judge, I know people who go years at a time not mentioning the Lone Ranger."

"Maybe three days is a little long. I mean, some of that is important stuff. We're gonna have to talk about it."

"One day." Mark looked down at his watch. "Till eight p.m. tonight. One point a slip-up, highest score loses."

"Who's gonna referee?"

"Hah! That came pretty damn close to a sports reference, if you ask me," McCormick crowed. "It's at least a technical." He bit down hard right after the last word slipped out.

"One-all," Hardcastle smiled as he carried his cup to the table.

00000

They both agreed it wouldn't be very sporting (with the score at two-all) if they simply avoided each other all day. On the other hand, Hardcastle was loathe to venture down into the basement file room, which had now taken on the ominous quality of a minefield. Mark refused to even consider going anywhere in a vehicle, figuring even a short trip would drive his score up into the duffer zone.

So they puttered, with the judge assuming the role of supervisory putterer. Mark usually wasn't too keen on having management looking over his shoulder, but on this occasion he welcomed the chance to prattle on about this and that—the state of the world, local and regional events—nothing like actually sticking a leg out and tripping the guy, but for someone like Hardcase, nearly everything boiled down to right and wrong, and wrong could easily score some points.

What he hadn't expected was that the old donkey seemed to have an almost encyclopedic recollection of the names and peccadilloes of the young ladies who had graced the estate's deck chairs over the past two and a half years. Mark had somewhat suspected that the judge's practiced disinterest was mostly feigned, but he'd never actually called him on it, and now that he could, he couldn't.

He ground his teeth slightly, and sacrificed a point to correcting one gross misrepresentation of the facts. "It was a ferret, not a weasel. And how was I supposed to know that when she said she took it everywhere, she meant _everywhere._ Besides, I didn't scream, I shouted, and you would have, too." He tried to muster his dignity.

"Three-two," the judge grinned. "You sure it was a ferret? I thought those were illegal to own."

"Three-three." Mark grinned. "Yeah, a ferret. I saw it up real close. And, anyway, weasels are illegal, too, only it doesn't matter because nobody wants one."

He saw the man hover over a clever comment about the two-legged variety that would have surely cost him a point. Instead, he smiled and backed off, then added, in an off-handed way that was almost comically obvious, "Oil spots in the garage. Saw 'em yesterday. Wasn't sure how new they were but they're on your side.

Mark frowned. He didn't think Hardcase would stoop to outright deception and there was always a possibility that the low-riding vehicle had sustained some undercarriage damage. He stood the rake against the nearest tree and brushed off his hands.

"Where you going?"

"To look for a flashlight."

"There's one in the garage. Need help?"

He knew he was going to get help, whether he needed it or not. The judge followed him back alongside the pool and up to the garage, like a shadow. Mark stared at That-Which-Must-Not-Be-Mentioned, then dropped to his hands and knees and peered under it.

"Probably help if you backed it out." Hardcastle dangled the spare key from one finger.

Mark growled, kept his mouth otherwise shut, and plucked the keys away. He stepped into the garage, slipped into the seat, started the car, and eased it out onto the drive.

It wasn't quite a puddle, but there was definitely a confluence of drops. Hardcastle flipped the garage light on. Mark crouched over the spot and touched it, then rubbed two fingers together.

"Not oil," he said, "brake fluid." He looked up at Hardcastle impatiently and added, "I know, four-three." Then he looked back at the Coyote.

"Intentional?" Hardcastle frowned. "Dammit, that guy Lorsoto, he's been making noises about getting even since we busted up that money laundering operation of his."

"Four-four," Mark muttered, and then, "How come I'm always the last to know?" He shook his head in disbelief. "I dunno; I'll have to jack it up and get underneath for a better look—"

"Five-four."

"Yeah," Mark sighed. "But it _might_ be accidental; it rides low—and I wasn't done with that sentence so this doesn't count as another point."

"I should probably give Frank a call and see if anything's up with the guy."

"Five-five." Mark grinned. "Not while I'm out here,"

"I suppose it can wait. It's not like we're going anywhere."

"Uh-huh," Mark shrugged, wiped his hands off on his jeans again, and reached for the switch. "No hurry."

00000

Peat moss, roses, thrips, lunch, and then the perilous proximity of the Dodgers v. Cubs match-up that was to have been watched that afternoon. It would either have to be observed in silence, or they'd need a scorecard. In the end it was mutually decided that a walk on the beach would do them both some good, as well as keep the math easier.

Sand, Daytona, one brief slip-up for McCormick. Six-five. Fishing, fish, sharks, loan-sharks. Six-six.

It turned into a long walk, with Mark racking up two more points clarifying his role in the infamous Fourth of July Incident of 1984. "The watermelon _arrived_ in that condition," he said. "And the plug was perfect; they lined up the little green marks and everything. You couldn't tell. And nobody could taste anything after eating your chili. Anyway," he sighed, "those twins were crazy."

"I think you have to ask yourself if twins are ever a good idea."

McCormick wasn't willing to sacrifice any more points defending his opinion on that topic. His walk had settled into a trudge. The judge regaled him with the story of the Johansson Brothers, twin wrestlers from Minnesota, who routinely spent every paycheck in a bar on his rookie beat. Eight-seven, but he got a laugh from the kid.

"Hey, do twins have the same fingerprints?" Mark asked.

"Is this gonna cost me another point? If it is, remind me to tell you tomorrow."

"Nah, just a point of information."

"Then the answer is no; they aren't identical, but they are similar."

00000

Dinner, Mark Twain, gold mining, the gold standard, Williams Jennings Bryant, Clarence Darrow. An incautious remark about a bribed jury cost Hardcastle another point and they adjourned to the den, eight-all.

"Oh, hey, look." Mark pointed to the TV listings. It's a 'True Grit/Rooster Cogburn' double feature."

"Nah, not for me." The judge smiled placidly. "I'm not much in the mood for TV."

"Okay," McCormick grinned, tossing the listings down on the coffee table, still within reach. "What'll we talk about?"

00000

"Well, the thing is, I actually kinda get what he meant," Mark said expansively. "Gimme an Oreo cookie and a grape Nehi and I'm right back there in P.S. 137. It's uncanny—"

The front doorbell rang, interrupting further speculation on the triggers of memory. The judge was on his feet with surprising speed.

"You expecting someone?" Mark looked down at his watch and then toward the man already up and in the hallway.

"Just Frank," Hardcastle said brusquely, "and Frank's a friend, not a you-know-what, so don't count a point there."

The door was opened and Hardcastle stood in the way, a little more four-square than usual.

Mark leaned out of his chair to get a better view and then grinned. "Frank with a file under his arm _is_ a 'you-know-what.' You called him, huh? That'll cost ya."

The judge let out a sigh and relented, stepping back. Harper peered in, looking a little puzzled. "Am I interrupting something? You made it sound like you were in a hurry."

"Nah," Hardcastle shook his head, "not interrupting." He gestured him by. "We were just discussing Proust."

"Proust the forger? " Frank's puzzled looked was transformed to confusion. "Didn't you send him up about four years ago?"

"Not Willie Proust," Hardcastle said impatiently, "_Marcel_, that French writer guy with the tea and cookies and the remembering things."

"Nine," Mark chortled, "no, _ten, _we're gonna count that phone call you must've made."

"Dammit, Frank, you made me lose my concentration." Hardcastle was staring down at his watch.

Confusion solidified into outright bafflement. Harper handed the file over to the judge. "Well, knock yourselves out, guys, just be careful; this Lorsoto guy already hates your guts." He took one last look at the two men and edged toward the door as though he were hoping to avoid an invitation.

Hardcastle put the file down and saw him out. When he turned back and reentered the den, McCormick already had his hands on it, open to the first page.

" Not much more than you have downstairs."

"You looked?"

"Yeah, right before lunch. I had to get out of the way so you could call Frank. Anyway, it's my car."

"Nine."

Mark looked up sharply, then down at his watch, 7:58. He smiled. "I think it's too late for a come-from-behind play."

"Hah," Hardcastle jabbed a finger toward him, "ten-all."

"Damn."

The phone rang. Both men stared at it, then at their watches, then at each other. Hardcastle finally reached for it and said 'hello' gruffly. The beaming countenance that he almost immediately adopted was proof positive that the call had nothing to do with the pursuit of criminal justice.

"Well, _sure _I remember you, Rachel. You're back in town, huh?"

Mark was staring at his watch again—fifty-three seconds. On the other hand, she'd never been the patient type. She'd never had to be.

"Sure I can see if he's available. Might take a sec." He thrust the receiver at McCormick who smiled wanly and took it.

He swallowed hard and said, "Hi, Rachel."

The judge's smile blossomed into a full-blown grin as the second hand swept past the twelve on his watch.

"_Eleven_-ten."


End file.
